Roofies

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On the Colonie Central School roofs, if the heat didn’t get you, the hilariously volatile combination of a barely post-pubescent prefrontal cortex, gushing teenage testosterone and vacuous flexion of maturing muscles might.

I worked a flat-roof replacement gig there one summer. Under the August sun, the viscous-but-no-longer-vicious erstwhile dinosaur I toted in that 40-pound bucket, could cost you dime-sized drops of epidermis if you got sloppy in your work. But to pour the new, you had to remove the old, scraping off post-fossilized roofing of solid tar-encased gravel.

I’d lug its strata to the eaves, where I lobbed it into a rollaway thirty feet below. I always made it a point to remind myself, “let go before you throw,” lest my proximity to summer sun above and all that empty air between me and terra firm below turn me into an 18-year-old Icarus, tarred, feathered, fallen and run out of the Town of Colonie on a gurney, not a rail.

The remuneration for this summer job sucked, but you couldn’t beat the shirt-off-all-day tans we boys carried back to school in September, along with a deeper appreciation of our language’s Anglo-Saxon roots.

I looked like burnished leather, save for those pink polka-dot reminders of why there are professionals who do that work and I’m the soft-handed dude from the literary profession relating my tar black on gravel white impressions of melting away one of my summers as an apprentice roofie.

And today, upon my middle-aged parchment of summer tan, I have the faded periods punctuating this tale to prove it.

Some hot sunny yard work Saturday unearthed the old hydrocarbon-induced erasures on my skin, like someone rubbed lead pencil upon my all-too-mature prefrontal lobe. I decided to write it down and share it before age washes these memories away, like so many others, through the holes in my brain’s now-leaky roof.

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2 thoughts on “Roofies

  1. Memories of my childhood … when my Dad, a general contractor, would let me accompany him, as he made the rounds of jobs every Saturday. The aroma of hot tar and freshly-sawn lumber, the ladder climb to the roof, … heat of the day radiating everywhere. Today is a day like that … ultra hot! The newly blacktopped street outside still sends out whiffs of hot tar when the wind rises. Aaahhh … Summer!

    • Sounds like your experiencing the kind of Proustian “inspiration by recollection” of certain sensory tags that sends me to the notebook and keyboard more times than I can admit.

      More often than not it’s the smell of something (like a particular perfume or my memory’s impression of it) that roto-tills up a long forgotten ghost. If the light is at a certain reminiscent angle, I’m cooked. In fifteen minutes, there’ll be a poem. In 60, a story draft.

      Thanks for dropping by, Helen. Always wonderful to see your voice.

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